Friday, January 08, 2010


The ship Our Care is drifting,
And none can make her stay;
Men watch in helpless horror as the sea spits forth a storm
That drags and drowns and draws her bow away.

The fishing fleet that rushed to save her
Is foundered in the roil and must return,
Now the folk at God’s Word Tavern are overcome,
Disturbed by Satan’s strife and toil—one cannot look more.

The ship Our Care has drifted
As far as she can go without hope;
Down she goes before our eyes, beyond our ropes,
And no one here can throw a net or swim out after.

Each man’s tongue to mouth’s roof cleaves
As all about the visible wind roars
And from Old Jones’ Locker
There comes a mocking laughter.


Current draft: 1/5/2010
©1981 Ronald C. Southern

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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)